


Only a Matter of Time

by queercateer



Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, Novelization, the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercateer/pseuds/queercateer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone was following Stanley, he was sure of it.</p>
<p> If he checked over his shoulder now, he would surely catch them.</p>
<p> It was only a matter of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a man nitpicks, doubts, and remembers.

**RESET 0**

The screen was cracked.

It wasn’t very noticeable, nor would it hamper with the operation of the monitor, but the man was rather irritable and just knew the minuscule detail would pester him to no end.

On the other hand, what was there for him to do about it? Sure, he could simply exchange it with one of the other seven screens in the room, but that required a sort of physical prowess of which he, unfortunately, lacked. Alternatively (just maybe), he could phone over a maintenance crew to complete the task in his stead. It was his story; there must have been some way for him to do it.

…

Scratch that. It was improbable for them to arrive on time, if at all. Besides, he was not the type who enjoyed to be kept waiting. No, no. That meant the only viable solution for him left was simply to deal with it, no matter the frustration it caused. His index finger convulsed, scratching at the lining of his expensive coat. A nervous tick who presented itself as a zombie: You’d think it is finally dead, but alas, it springs up right as a hero is about to be murdered in front of their friends. Tragic, really.

With a sigh of reluctance, the thirty-something year old man slipped his weary hands into his pockets of a pristine beige trench coat and shifted his gaze down to the myriad of buttons on the desk below.

There looked to be near a surplus of a hundred, all sorts of colors, shapes, and sizes. Some were flashing at different intervals, others glowed a bright color from the LED rainbow, and a rebel group existed that chose not to illuminate at all. He tried out a large selection, later concluding that most were for decoration rather than function, as a panel full of useless trinkets always envelops viewers more than having none at all.

Yet, four of these useless objects presented themselves to be not so useless. One could almost say that they were nearly, but not fully useful. That description was going much too far.

These objects entailed a computer mouse, a keyboard of similar fashion, a microphone looking as if it painfully clawed and dragged itself straight from the fifties era, and a cumbersome red button between them all, simply labeled RESET. He had no clue what it could mean, although the nigh-infinite possibilities were intriguing.

It became apparent to him that in the current moment, the function of the button could have meant nearly anything, and still be of little account. As long as his story went as planned, the microphone and monitors would be all he needed.

Aside from that rather infuriating crack, all was done. The last thing to do was only to sit down, and start reading off of the script. It was simple.

Yet, the man found himself glued to the spot. It couldn't have been fear or nerves preventing him from taking that final step. No, it must have been over a hundred times he has read through this before, practiced until his very voice pleaded for rest, just a moment's rest. He knew he could do this, and do it well. With a breath of determination, he lifted his leg and took a firm step

\-- in the opposite direction.

What if he couldn't do it? Sure, days and nights full of rehearsing refuted the doubt, but this was different. He wasn't just reading words off of a paper now. He was doing it for real this time. There was a main character, and a story, and a complete setting meticulously planned down to the shape of the fern, and oh god he couldn't do this.

The man kept stumbling back until he felt his coat hit against the opposing wall. His right hand crawled out of his pocket and straight to his heart. Breathing in and out and _in and out_ , a futile attempt to steady his thoughts.

This shouldn't have been happening. “It was just a simple stage fright, nothing to worry about” rational thoughts cried out to him. “No, it wasn't, everything needs to be worried about” cried the irrationals, as they punched their counters in the jaw. They were known to be quite violent.

It seemed to be ages before the two abstract thoughts stopped arguing with each other and finally let the man think for himself. He released the hand that was fervently clutching at the spot where his heart lay, then dropped it back inside his pocket. It was alright. All he needed was a few breaths, and everything would be--

Hmm? What was this?

The man reopened his eyes and shifted them down towards the pocket his hand was in. There was something in there. His fingers slid around the item, discovering the texture to be… paper.

Paper? He certainly didn't have this in his pocket before. Figuring that it might have left it in there and forgotten about, he fished it out, smoothed the crunched page out on the floor, then gasped.

This was the original notebook scrap he had jotted down the idea for, the man noted, grinning and drawing the page closer. Sure, the story itself evolved enough to the point where this was as useful to him as the majority of the buttons on the desk, but the nostalgia still held well enough for him for an ounce of peace.

The paper was soon folded neatly back into its miniscule form and safely tucked away down an inner coat pocket. As he worked his way back up, monitors around him sprung to life, one showing a boss's office, another a yellow line just desperate to leave its confinement, a third displaying a simple broom closet unlikely to be used within any shape or form, and finally one hovering right over the dashboard with an office worker blankly staring at his computer screen.

It was time.

Taking one final heave, a calm before the storm, the man lowered down into his chair, leaned forward, and spoke the words he knew by heart.

"This is the story of a man named Stanley."


	2. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another wakes, listens, then chooses.

**RESET 0**

_Good morning employee 432. Please press "S" on your keyboard._

An attenuated finger worked its purpose and faithfully flew across to the faded key.

_Good! Now press "N" on your keyboard._

The action was repeated, as its owner let his eyes glaze over.

His work was necessary.

_Good! Now press "L" on your keyboard._

His work was important.

_Good! Now press "G" on your keyboard._

Minutes - no, hours passed with the same monotonous function. Get a message. Press a key. Receive a reward. Repeat.

…

How long had he spent here, sitting in this chair? Stanley started to ponder on this thought when it simply vanished in front of him. No, he thought. It doesn't matter. Only the work mattered.

It continued on like this for an extended period of time, almost forever, it seemed-

\- that is until a dry British narration suddenly wormed its way into his ear.

"Stanley worked for a company in a big building where he was employee number 427. Employee 427's job was simple: he sat at his desk in room 427 and he pushed buttons on a keyboard."

The office worker twisted his body in fear. Who was this strange person, and why were they talking about him? He waited, but nobody came. The voice only continued to narrate his every action, as if it was some practical joke by his co-workers. For just a moment, he was content with his rationalization.

"Stanley relished every moment that the orders came in, as though he had been made exactly for this job."

No, how could it be them? Stanley had never maintained any sort of meaningful conversation with anyone in particular, certainly not memorable enough to warrant someone wasting their time by talking about him.

Wait - riding that train of thought, where were his co-workers? Had he even seen them at all in his morning trek? Stanley attempted to calm himself by turning to the warm familiarity of the monitor, only to be slapped with a black, empty screen.

"...when he realized that not one single order had arrived on the monitor for him to follow."

The man was right. Petrified by his own confusion and fear, Stanley simply stared at it, hoping that an order would come soon and that he would not have to worry any longer. And yet, something inside him encouraged him to listen and stand up for his own, to investigate the source of this anomaly. Surprisingly enough, he listened.

"But as he came to his wits and regained his senses, he got up from his desk and stepped out of his office."

Slowly but surely, Stanley stood up from the well-worn swivel chair and peered out of the door, meeting a dead silent room full of cubicles, paperwork, and half-finished lattes. It was truly against his better judgment, but the man's voice pulled him out of the confines of his workspace, and into the hallway.

"All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo."

He was sure that they were here just an hour beforehand, the sea of 'Hellos', 'How are yous', and vague nods of recognition comforting him in the relative closeness of his office. But now, absolutely nothing. 'The man had a point in suggesting my next destination', Stanley mused, as he continued to walk down the beige hallways, contemplating the still-warm mugs and flashing screens. Yes, there was no reason for Stanley to be worried. Everyone was alright. Nothing was wrong with him.

"When Stanley came upon a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left."

The man above couldn't even finish his sentence before a determined Stanley had already passed three other doors in a row. If this sudden disappearance was, in fact, a meeting, Stanley would have been considered late. It was probably being held by very important people, whose impressions would affect his career, and by extension, the rest of his life.

It took a bit of legwork, but Stanley finally reached his destination, and took a breath to relax-

yet there was not a single person here either.

Stanley's mouth was left agape. How could this be? If his co-workers were not at their desks, and not in their meeting rooms, then... something was horribly wrong. Something that Stanley was absolutely not skilled enough to find the truth to on his own. And so, Stanley prepared himself to return back to his cramped desk, back to the soothing safety of his monitor. This idea went as far as a few steps, then stopped abruptly. There was no one here that could know about things like this, save for his boss.

His boss.

That was the key! Stanley charged out of the meeting room, past the alluring broom closet, and up the hollow metal stairs, clanging his worn loafers against them. This was it! If anyone knew what had been going on, it would be his boss! Stanley had never spoken with them before, but he knew the other would understand. They would give a hearty laugh at the misunderstanding, offer a paternal pat on the back, then send him back to the warm embrace of the orders on his monitor screen. He would be happy.

And when he opened the doors with a firm, yet respectful, he found his answer: not even his boss was in the building. It was almost as if some accidental apocalypse had stolen everyone away, leaving only a rather confused Stanley and the commanding voice above.

The voice appeared to have been speaking while his mind was attempting mental gymnastics, then flinging itself face-first into the mat, as when Stanley tuned back in, he overheard a cleverly written clue. "...he could not have known was that the keypad behind the boss's desk guarded the terrible truth that his boss had been keeping from him." The voice exclaimed, "and so the boss had assigned it an extra secret pin number: 2-8-4-5."

In spite of the recent revelation, Stanley's feet were rooted to the ground, like some type of fern. His mind was still stuck on the fact that no one was present. He knew that at least the janitor and a few employees must have been present for all seven days of the week, including himself, ruling out the possibility of it just being a Saturday. Stanley began to muse further.

However, the voice was not one that enjoyed watching a man standing petrified with thought, so he cleared his throat and repeated the code, with more force: "2-8-4-5."

Thankfully, this was enough to pull Stanley out of his stupor as he shook his head and shifted towards the keypad behind the desk.

A beam of sweat inched its way down his forehead.

2.

Was he really meddling through his boss's possessions?

8.

This could be grounds for an immediate arrest, or worse, dismissal.

4.

A trembling finger reached out, hovering over the last button before Stanley squinted his eyes shut and pushed forward.

5.

Stanley tensed his body together and pulled the arm back in, fully expecting some alarm to go off, or for security to come bolting in, screaming like banshees. Thankfully, the only booming noise in the room was the sound of a panel pushing back, then zooming away into the ceiling as the voice peacefully stated: "Yet incredibly, by simply pushing random buttons on the keypad, Stanley happened to input the correct code by sheer luck. Amazing." Stanley could almost hear the voice's eyes roll.

After stepping through the gap in the wall, Stanley waded his way through the harshly lit room until he stumbled into a metal cage – or, an elevator, as he took a closer look. He was so enveloped in the fact that his boss contained this secret area from all of them that he did not notice the fact that the elevator already was halfway down its desired path nor that the voice was speaking once more.

"Descending deeper into the building, Stanley realized he felt a bit peculiar. It was a stirring of emotion in his chest, as though he felt more free to think for himself, to question the nature of his job." The voice had grown deeper and more foreboding, but Stanley could still detect a hint of… something. He seemed to be enjoying himself. The office worker decided to have a conversation with this man once this whole business was sorted out, to see who he really was, and why he decided it was important to dictate every movement Stanley had made so far.

"Stanley walked straight ahead, through the large door that read: 'Mind Control Facility.'" As the voice was elaborating on said action, Stanley turned his gaze to the left, to a metal wall with blood-like (hopefully) spray paint entailing the words: ESCAPE. He considered taking this route, if only but for a moment, then stored it away in some part of his brain while continuing with his journey.

What looked to be miles upon miles of blackened television screens encased the circular wall of the next room. Each reflected a singular dim light that hung high above, causing what would be a darkened room to fill with a blaring white shine. This fact annoyed Stanley, as he could not look ahead in his path without immediately having to look back down, so he did what he normally did when faced in an uncomfortable situation: pressed a button. This one rested on a circular beam, protruding in such a way as if waiting to be activated. Stanley hoped this would at least turn the light off - musing that complete darkness was better than the possibility of being totally blinded. Right as he pushed it down, the overhead light dimmed while every single screen roared to life in a rotunda of color. Although Stanley was pleased that the room wasn't quite as blindingly bright, his mouth still drew wide in horror.

One screen displayed the abandoned desk of employee 432. Another, the work area of 187. Still yet, his closed space was tucked away between the screens depicting 426's and 428's offices. Each employee's personal pains and struggles, reduced to mere images on a screen. The peculiar naming of the room: Mind Control Facility, finally made horrible, horrible sense. Who could bring themself to steer the lives of so many people in such a secretive way? Stanley pulled his arms in close and quickened his pace. The thought made him feel too sick to even think about.

By the time he had found another elevator ( round, like the abhorrent room it was in ), the voice had lectured through another monologue, this time reflecting on Stanley's apparent disgust and confusion: "His own life in someone else's control? It was unthinkable, wasn't it? Was it even possible? Had he truly spend his entire life utterly blind to the world?"

The metal elevator reached its apex, an expansive room with a plethora of colorful buttons. Stanley stepped out of the elevator, his steps getting heavier and heavier with each passing moment.

"But here was the proof. The heart of the operation, controls labeled with emotions: 'happy' or 'sad' or 'content'."

The office worker let his eyes linger over each button before gradually switching over to the next. It was true. He wasn't happy at all in his job. At least, not entirely. No, he and everyone else were manipulated to let the monotonous nature of their jobs seem to be worthwhile, even pleasurable. They had all been trapped here under false pretenses, and Stanley felt determined to stop it. Enraged, he marched onwards towards a set of two raised buttons solely labeled 'OFF' and 'ON'. Before the voice could even finish what he was saying, Stanley pounded his hand into the former, shutting down the machine, the computers, and every light around him. Even the voice had halted his speech.

A few moments passed, and yet he still stood in this hollow void. As he waited for something to happen, he pondered on his earlier statement about blindness and quickly retracted it.

Suddenly, the voice reappeared with a new fervor: "Yes!"

Light penetrated the room as one of the walls slowly split from the ground and ascended, revealing the cardboard trees and plastic grass outside. A hidden fan blew a cool breeze in Stanley's direction, enticing him to step forward. He took another step, then one more, then finally one right out of the office building.

Smiling, he looked up to the sun lamp above.

"And Stanley was happy."

The Narrator released the button next to the microphone, crossing his arms and peering quietly at how the office worker bumbled around the area, feeling the fake bark on the trees and pressing his tired feet against the gravel. 

He felt… unsatisfied.

Was this it? Really? After all the hard work he had done, the whole charade only lasted for, what, five minutes!? The man huffed and let an aggravated eye landed on the protruding RESET button next to him. He had never considered it to be useful before, mainly since its intended purpose was left unknown to him, but now…

He shouldn't do it.

Even if it did send the story back to the beginning (if his hastened assumption was correct), it was already over. He had lived through it. Let Stanley be happy. 

The Narrator was almost content with this rationalization before he hit head first into a mental wall.

Err - a real wall as well for Stanley, as he rubbed his forehead. The freedom he had sought was fake, the Narrator noted, as the sun lamp flickered and sparked. Would it really be better to condemn his character to this claustrophobia-inducing room, proclaiming how he had 'won'? No! It would be anything but heinous not to indulge in the story at least one more time, just to live out the dream.

Yes, just one more time.

The Narrator leaned forward and pushed a button.

Behind his back, a computer screen flashed, then displayed a phrase.

  
1 OUT OF 800 COMPLETE.

 

**RESET 38**

Stanley felt betrayed.

The second time he woke up in his office, he assumed it was a dream, that the cooling air had knocked him out and he was just reliving his adventure (in the said dream). He followed the voice's orders as per the previous time, ending up in the same comforting field. He closed in eyes in anticipation, and instead of waking up in the grass, he rose from his desk. Again.

Then, he cobbled together another explanation. Maybe this was only going to repeat for a certain number of times, that he'd finally be released into the true open world experience once it was done. Maybe it was 5 times. No. Of course not. 8? No. Maybe 20 then. No.

By the 30th try, he realized that the 'freedom room' was just a square box with painted walls and a light, just like his office.

By the 31st, he realized he was never getting out.

Why hadn't the voice mentioned this? He was supposed to be his friend, his guide, not some unexplained phenomena that trapped him in this loop. After the 8th, he yelled upwards towards the speakers to reason with him, tried to get some bloody answer on why he couldn't escape.

He was met with dead silence until he pushed a button, then they continued on as usual, with nothing but the voice having a nervous tremor as an acknowledgment.

Now, he stood in front of the mind control switch again, his eyes beaming straight down the middle. If he just chose OFF again, what would be the point? The fake scenery would reveal itself, he'd have one, maybe two minutes of time allotted before he felt the irresistible urge to sleep and found himself back at the beginning once again.

"Stanley decided that this machinery would never again exert its terrible power over another human life. For he would dismantle the controls once and for all." The message dulled into mush in his head, as he had heard it spoken so many times before. Out of routine, his hand leered towards the OFF, nearly pressing it down - before he hastily shifted it over to the right. Lights flickered as the machine whirred to life.

Why should he listen to this man, who so oft' yanked him to the same room, the same narration, the same sleep in which he was transported back to his dingy office? It was all just the same, over and over again. And he reasoned that he would have to do something new to break it, even if it meant going against what his 'companion' had recommended. Even if he had to not follow an order.

The Narrator gasped and drew back in his chair. Had Stanley actually... disobeyed?

He honestly did not know that was possible. It was his story, his character, why should he have to give it up so Stanley could have a little temper tantrum?

Well, fine. If he wanted something to bite the hand that fed him, he'd didn't deserve the food in the first place.

"Oh, Stanley. You didn't just activate the controls, did you?"

The Narrator started typing code into his computer.

"I'm afraid you don't have the power you think you do; for example, and I think you'll find this pertinent: Stanley suddenly realized that he had just initiated the network's emergency detonation system."

Enter. His lips curled up.

"In the event that this machine is activated without proper DNA identification, nuclear detonators are set to explode, eliminating the entire complex."

The facility wasn't really going to blow up, he'd never nuke his story. No, The Narrator thought as he rested a finger on the RESET button. He just needed to teach Stanley a lesson. He needed Stanley to know that going against his instruction would not go without consequence.

"How long until detonation then? Hmm… let's say, um... two minutes."

Fingers glided across keys, and it was done.

A blaring red countdown clock replaced the relatively calm MIND CONTROLS IDLE.

2:00 remaining.

Stanley, of course, couldn't have known that it was a ploy. He sprinted across the room like a headless chicken, trying to think up some clever way to halt the countdown, or at least escape. He first tried the glowing red button near the ON-OFF area. A moment's wait… nothing. Maybe the numbered ones will help him. Pressing 2 8 4 5? Still nothing. Perhaps just the 8 button? Nothing but a growing feeling of helplessness.

1:30 remaining.

"Ah!" The Narrator proclaimed. "Mere moments until the bomb goes off, but what precious moments each one of them is! More time to talk about you, about me where we're going, what all this means… I barely know where to start!" His blatant, heartless sarcasm was rising in tune with Stanley's frustration and fear. "You'd like to know where your co-workers are? Alright, I'm in a good mood, and you're going to die anyway." He put some extra emphasis on 'die', trying to see if it would make Stanley squirm.

"I erased them."

It was a partial truth. They existed in one of his early drafts, he had written over 20, before deciding the filler wasn't needed and scrapping them. But, if a little white lie would persuade Pavlov's pup into salivating than let it be.

Stanley was taken back. He had done this!? The one who he hoped was a friend, someone who he trusted to lead him - started this whole thing? Hurt flashed across his eyes before it melted back to a shield of anger.

The yellow button didn't work either.

0:50 remaining.

"I have to say this, though, this version of events has been rather amusing. Watching you try to make sense of everything and take back the control wrestled away from you… it's quite rich. I almost hate to see it go!" He laughed and glanced back at the countdown.

"My goodness! Only thirty-four seconds left… but I'm enjoying this so much! You know what? To hell with it. I'm going to put some extra time on the clock; why not! These are precious additional seconds, Stanley. Time doesn't grow on trees."

~~0:26 remaining.~~

1:46 remaining

If the version of him before he started the first round of resets could see how cruel he was being right now, he would go off on the other and fix the misguided hubris that had exploded out of proportions. But alas, naive curiosity turned to excitement, then greed, burning the innocent emotion into a lust for the retellings of his story.

"Oh, dear me, what's the matter, Stanley?" The voice purred its words and rested his cheek against his hand. "Did you just assume when you saw that timer that something in this room was capable of turning it off?"

Stanley scowled. He knew that the other was probably right - there would be no way to halt the timer. But, what point to there was standing around, waiting for death to bury him? Besides, it wasn't like the voice had been entirely truthful this entire time. His trust had been shattered a while back - it would prove fruitless to try and reclaim it.

Green button? No.

The elevator? Refuses to move.

This keypad? Of course not.

The door? Locked and shut.

"Hahaha, heh, Stanley… you're in for quite a disappointment." Stanley internally screamed and exploded into a sprint. This would be easier if the other would just shut up and stop gloating.

0:15 remaining.

The Narrator leaned forward in his seat, lips just inches away from the microphone.

"I will be laughing at every second of your inevitable life, from the moment we fade in until the moment I say: Happily Ever-"

RESET.

 


End file.
